A Plague of Angels
by El Stormo
Summary: This one is longer and more detailed than the first although it takes place before 'Hengeyokai' chronologically. I've taken more liberties with this one. Contains spoilers!
1. Chapter 1 of 6

It looked like the guy janitoring at the Skyeline apartments was a rather serious pervert. Or, if not a pervert, at least a dastardly invader of privacy. Not that I was respecting people's locked doors, of course. After snapping the lock of the door leading from what passed as a lobby to the basement, I found myself looking at six television screens, each of them showing the interior of one of the six apartments in the Skyeline complex. I also found a ledger describing monetary transactions in exchange for tapes, most of those tapes labeled with the number six. Probably the sixth apartment. Next to the ledger was a small notebook describing the six apartments and their inhabitants.

#1 Simon Milligan. Keep an eye on this one, it's the guy from that TV- show. Could be worth a lot of money

#2 Mike Durbin. Weirdo, keeps to himself. Constantly looks out the window.

#3 Some rich woman. Almost never home. Tried to see the combination of her safe but no luck so far.

#4 Vacant

#5 Paul ... Pretty boring. Doesn't get out much.

#6 Hannah Glazer. This is the goldmine! Something hot is always going on there, and that something hot is usually Hannah herself!

I remembered that Simon Milligan-character from TV, and would actually run into him later. But that is another tale. The person I was looking for was a ghoul named Paul. Said ghoul – boring, doesn't get out much – had not reported to his Anarch brethren in a while, and since I was the one they wanted to investigate their little problem, this ghoul, slim though the chance was, could be a lead. Mind you, I didn't take on this job because the Anarchs had threatened me, or worse, to do them a favour, but rather to make it clear to them that there were things the Anarchs simply couldn't solve without the help of the Camarilla. They would miss the point entirely, but then, Anarchs, what could you do with them except use them as oversized torches?

Anyway, I was sent to investigate a strange plague that had turned out to be more than just a bad case of the coughs. People were dying in unexpectedly large numbers, and both Kindred and kine authorities had gotten suspicious. The Kindred had started to investigate the Anarchs, for even they themselves knew the cause was likely to be found among them, and the kine had sent the CDC down to find out what was going on. And I don't think it can be overstated what bad news that meant for us. This plague, dubbed 'Captain Trips' by a few facetious reporters, was probably transmitted by blood or saliva. And it should be obvious when those two meet.

So, everyone stood to gain by resolving this situation as soon as possible. My efforts had been partially succesful already, since I had eliminated a revolting and decaying Vampire named Brother Kanker in his festering lair deep in the sewers. That had only slowed the plague however, and not stopped it entirely. So the search went on, and I had to explore every lead, even one as flimsy as an Anarch ghoul not reporting. He probably simply needed to be taught discipline. They all did.

The air vents would have been a fine option to reach the fifth level for one of the Gangrel or Nosferatu clan, but starting a climb straight upward through a narrow square pipe did not seem like the best approach to me. If I got stuck, bursting the pipe with my Potence was the only option. And that was noisy, painful and a waste of good blood. Brujah though I am, I recognize a foolish plan when I see one. The elevator was a much better option, with the added advantage of staying out of the draft. Of course, then I'd have to worry about the front door, but better to be stuck in front of a locked door than inside a tight duct.

The elevator dropped me off at the fifth floor, and I found myself in front of a solid oaken door. Breaking it down would be quite easy for me, but again, noisy, painful, waste of blood. The lock was electronic, and forcing it would most likely set off an alarm, so I tried the only possibility I saw feasible: I opened the window in the hallway and climbed onto the ledge that ran along the outside wall. The wind buffeted me with eager enthousiasm as I inched forward. I was never particularly afraid of heights, but I don't think anyone – not even a Vampire – can stand on a narrow ledge five storeys high and not realize it's a pretty long drop.

I inhaled sharply (the air was worthless, but I needed the pause) and crept further, holding myself with the tips of my fingers straining to retain their grip on the seams of the masonry. More than one car horn blared as a vehicle passed by, accompanied by the occasional yell of "you crazy bitch!". As if I wasn't exerting myself enough, I had to burn blood to invoke my Presence-discipline to cause the drivers to be so afraid of me they didn't dare call the cops. And even for a Vampire, scaring people when you're clinging to a building, with your back to them, is no small task. There were two people standing on the corner of the streets dressed in CDC biosuits, but they hadn't noticed me. I'm doing your job up here, you know.

I was lucky in one respect however: Paul was as forgetful about closing windows as he was about reporting to his superiors. I quickly glanced around, pushed the window open and crawled inside. My presumptions about the ghoul not responding due to poor discipline turned out to be incorrect. Paul simply didn't report because Paul was dead.

The body showed all signs of the plague: the dark-ringed, sunken eyes, the swollen throat, the flaky, cracked skin and the buildup of mucus inside the mouth and on the lips. I ruled out the possibility of death of old age. I quickly rifled through his pockets, but the only useful thing I could find was the key card to his apartment. Well, at least now I could use the door to get out. But first, I had an apartment to search. I tore the place inside out but didn't find anything useful, and my frustration grew with every room I checked, until I was finally about to stomp to the door and damn it all. But at that moment I saw that the red LED of the answering machine was blinking. Stupid of me to forget to check his messages, but then again, it was probably just his mother wondering why he didn't call back. I was wrong again. The voice on the machine was that of a young woman who sounded positively ill.

_Paul?... Hannah here. I'm sorry to bother you, but could you pick me up some cold medicine at the store? I wouldn't bother you with this normally, but I'm just too sick to go out. Come right on in, the code is 1969. Thanks. Oh, and last week was wonderful. I really had a good time... But I'm rambling. Okay bye. _click

'It's Hannah'. That probably meant Hannah Glazer, that 'something hot' from the apartment on the sixth floor. Good. That meant I didn't have to travel far. And if this dead guy here – boring, doesn't get out much – got infected by Hannah, as I hoped he did, and not the other way around, that may probably lead me to the source. In the end. Hopefully. If this Hannah-chica wasn't dead already. Best hurry.

I quickly punched in the code I picked up from the answering machine and headed straight for the bedroom. That's where sick people stayed, right? Not that I could remember the last time I'd been sick. At the thought, melancholy came over me again but I pushed it back down to come back another night. When I ascended the stairs I heard an inquisitive groan. Good. She was still alive.

"Who are you? You're not Paul!" she croaked indignantly when I came in. The lights were dim to the point of darkness, but I could see the black around her eyes and the flakyness of her skin. She would probably have been beautiful when she was healthy. She was lying down in bed, and she had most likely draped her sheets over her at first, but she'd kicked them off again, probably because of the heat of the fever. Her nightgown was drenched with sweat. She wasn't long for this world.

"I'm here to help you," I half-lied.

"Help me? How?"

I hesitated for a moment. "I'm a doctor." It wasn't just half a lie anymore.

"A... a doctor? Did Paul send you?"

I nodded. "Yes he did." Even though it was for a good cause, and they were white lies, they did gnaw at my conscience a little. And she didn't find a doctor in a black leather jacket and bluejeans suspicious, so she was probably very badly ill.

"Hannah... do you have any idea who gave you this illness?"

She shook her head wearily. "No. It could have been any of my clients."

"What about Paul. Was he your client?"

She shook her head again. "Paul? No, we just..." she fell into a fit of coughing, "...went on a date together."

"Hannah... what kind of clients are you talking about?"

She didn't answer the question, but instead she grabbed me by the sleeve. "Why did you... why did you ask about Paul? Is he... ill too?"

I nodded. "I'm afraid so. Hannah... Paul is dead."

Her eyes went wide. "What? Dead?" and she gave an ululating cry and flopped down on the pillows.

"Hannah?"

When I tried to rouse her she didn't respond. She'd slid into a deep and probably fatal coma. I left her there on her bed and began my second apartment search for the evening. This answering machine didn't have any messages, but I did find a small ledger that made it clear exactly what kind of 'clients' Miss Glazer had. One entry leapt out at me:

_I met a woman called Jezebel Locke today. She was more beautiful than anyone I'd ever seen, and she had a sort of aura about her that made her... irresistible. She asked me to come with her to her hotel and paid me more than twice what I ask for a night. I'd never been with a woman before, but she was so captivating. She's asked me to come back next week, same place, in her suite at the Empire Hotel. I don't know if I should go or not, but just thinking about her makes me all tingly inside. There's something strange about this woman..._

Unlike Hannah, I was familiar with Vampire powers and this 'captivating aura' this Jezebel Locke had was obviously projected through the use of the Presence discipline, in which I myself also had rudimentary skill. Perhaps this Jezebel could provide me with some answers. But as I looked at the time, I knew that would be for tomorrow night – dawn would soon come. I didn't know what to do about Hannah, so I simply left her there. "Tough break, Hannah," I said simply when I walked out the door. I've often wondered if she died eventually. I suppose she did.


	2. Chapter 2 of 6

I slept the day away, like always, showered, brushed my hair and spent my nightly few minutes looking at the people coming home from work, envying them for the gift they didn't even realize they had. But before the melancholy became too great, got up, threw off my ever-the-same white T-shirt, got dressed, checked my weapons and headed down to the Empire Hotel.

The receptionist regarded me with quite a suspicious eye. Of course, who could blame him? It wasn't every day that someone showed up at the reception of the Empire Hotel dressed in leather and bluejeans. Well, maybe those eccentric rich kids who thought they'd look dangerous if they threw on a leather jacket, as if no one would see it was just an act, but other than that?

"Can I... help you, miss?" he asked warily. He had a slight lisp, but other than that, his speech, manner and appearance were 'perfect'. I smiled and said, "Yes, I'm here to see Ms. Locke." His face lit up.

"Ahh, yes! You're one of the... of course. And your name?"

Saying my own name would be a stupidity, so I did what I thought was a good move. "Hannah. Hannah Glazer."

The young man rifled through some papers on his desk. I couldn't see what they were, because they were behind the counter, but they must have been photographs, because his face suddenly hardened and he said, "Miss, I suggest you leave immediately, or I'm calling the police." He was apparently serious because he had already lifted the receiver of the phone on his desk. I didn't want to waste any blood and cause any commotion, so I spread my palms and said, "Alright, I'm leaving." For now.

I decided not to risk it and hid in a nearby alley, and a good thing I did, because after four or five minutes a wailing siren stopped at the Empire building. Little deskjockey had called the cops anyway. I'd get him back for that.

After the cops had left (probably with a description of a black-haired, Latina-looking female, fat lot of good it'd do them), I called upon the services of that old and ever-helpful best friend of every hotel burglar: the service entrance. The bolt on the door was easily snapped. They'd notice in the morning, but what did I care? It's not like I'd ever come back here (I actually would, but I didn't know at that time). The service stairs were thankfully free of people who were actually permitted to be there, and I reached the fifth floor without trouble. Some fool had even left the door to the hallway unlocked. For the price their guests paid, you'd expect they'd be slightly more attentive.

There was only one suite on this floor, so I didn't have much trouble finding the right room. Before I knocked though, I took out my pistol just in case. Because unlike Hannah and Paul, this one was consciously attracting people, which to me was an indication not to take chances. I raised my first to the door, but before I could rap on it a sensuous female voice came from inside. "Come right in. It's open." And so I did. The figure that was watching me was every bit as appealing as her voice. She was dressed in a bourgondy silken robe which hung loosely around her slender body. Her hair was a bright fiery red, worn up with a fringe hanging over her bright emerald eyes.

"Miss Jezebel Locke?"

She smiled and nodded. "I am she. Have you come to join the Ninth Circle?" She got up from the bed and walked toward me. As she approached, I felt the pull Hannah and many others must have felt before me, but the discipline of Presence, which I possessed as well, to a degree, has only a limited effect on supernatural creatures like we Vampires. I decided not to let it show and let her approach. "Ninth Circle?"

"That's right. Where we shall spend eternity in sweet sick delirium." She stroked my hair and bared one of her large breasts. Then she tried to press up against me, but I pushed the muzzle of my pistol against her hard belly. "Get back."

She started momentarily and put a step back, but she was unimpressed. She laughed, her breast still hanging out of her robe. I was a perfectly healthy heterosexual female in life, but if I'd been still alive and unknowing that her flesh was dead, she would have claimed me. She wasn't beautiful, she was ravishing. Of course, my dead body no longer ached for that particular type of pleasure. And she seemed to realize what I was now.

"A fellow Kindred," she said sultrily. "Now I see why I have so little effect on you. And you seem... unwilling to join the Brotherhood of the Ninth Circle? No matter. We will have you anyway, sister."

"I'm not your sister. Tell me, what is this Brotherhood."

"The Final Nights are approaching, sister, and the healthy and living shall be damned when the tides of fire wash over us. Only in sweet disease and death can we be cleansed. And we shall be joyful, festering and rotting!"

I blinked. "But we Kindred don't get sick."

She shook her head and laughed again. "Our fates shall be even more heavenly. We are the Carriers, those that spread the cleansing sickness. And so shall you be."

"Brother Kanker told me the same thing, and he was wrong too."

She merely shrugged. "Brother Kanker is not too great a loss. Not if we gain you as an ally. You shall drink my blood and be cleansed in disease."

I couldn't help but scoff. "What makes you think I'd be crazy enough to freely drink your blood?"

She covered her breast again, her hand went to her back and she and slid a knife out of the belt of her robe. Her green eyes fixed on me. "Better put that gun away. Police attention isn't something either of us want, sister."

"I told you I wasn't your sister." But she was right. I holstered my pistol and took out my knife, a jagged, commando-style one, like the ones Sylvester Stallone always used in his dumb movies. I didn't particularly like knives, but I could use them if I had to. "You still didn't tell me how you were going to make me drink your blood."

She laughed again. "Easy, really. I'll simply cut you open in enough places and wring out your little body like a dishrag until you're so ravenous you'll drink anything."

I know what it felt like to be ravenous. And I knew I would drink anything if I was hungry enough. All Vampires would.

"Interesting plan," I said casually. "There's only one flaw in it." Jezebel cocked her head. "The first part."

She carved the air with a swing of her knife and bared her fangs at me. "I look forward to carving up your smooth flesh until you beg me to feed you, little rat!"

I flashed my own fangs in return. "Let's dance, puta!"

The Discipline I had focused on in my Vampiric unlife was that of Celerity, and I believe it's safe to say that I was the fastest Vampire in LA and beyond at the time, but the sheer speed and ferocity of her tiger leap caught even me flat-footed. As she pounced, I only had time to bring my arm up to catch the slash of her knife. I could feel the tendons snap as her knife, short but wickedly sharp, cut through my forearm. I screamed, but despite the pain I managed to thrust my knee upward, ramming it between her legs as hard as I could. The speed of her jump dragged her down to the ground. She grimaced from the pain in the area I'd targeted and got up clumsily. I took the time to switch my knife to the other hand, because my right hand was dangling uselessly at the end of my crippled arm. With a screech of rage, she swiped again, but by that time I'd already boosted my speed using my Celerity and I easily managed to sidestep the swing with only a minor fleshwound in the side. At the same time, I slashed straight at her face. I was using my left hand, so the blow didn't have all the effect it could have had, but it still slashed open her cheek from the ear to the corner of her mouth, and the force of the blow shattered several of her teeth. Jezebel weakly took another swing, but the pain in her face drained her of most of her strength, and I easily parried the attack and pistoned my knife between her breasts, my newly-activated Potence driving the blade in, crushing her breastbone and smashing my hand into her chest all the way to the wrist. Jezebel gargled and spewed out a gulp of blood, but unbelievable though it may seem to mortals, such wounds, though horribly painful and weakening, are nowhere near fatal to a Vampire.

I wasn't just fast, however. I was meteoric. My moves were blurry flashes to Jezebel, who stared up at me with a flap of flesh dangling where her cheek should be, exposing the bloody and broken teeth and lacerated gums. Before she could even raise her arm, I had already struck her in the side of the head with a roundhouse kick. With both my Celerity and my limited skill in Potence charged into the kick, the impact was that of a sledgehammer, smashing her head sideways so hard that her temple struck her shoulder. The bones in her neck made a short but horribly loud crunching sound. Her body was lifted off the ground, bowled over a standing lamp and smacked into a wall, all with a terrible amount of noise. I ceased fueling my disciplines and the world, that always appears to slow down around me when I use my Celerity, returned to its normal speed. Jezebel's body lay sprawled on the carpet, my kick having sent her straight into torpor. No surprise, that impact would have levelled even the hardiest Gangrel.

Before I Awakened her for interrogation, I searched the hotel room. It was easier without a half-groggy, ravenous and furious Vampire also present. The only thing of significance I found (next to a wad of cash I pocketed), was a flyer with a strange sigul on it: a white skull in a red starburst. I quickly crumpled it and stuffed it in my jacket pocket. It was new, and already ruined. I could of course cut off the entire sleeve and wear it Mad Max-style, but that'd look ridiculous. No matter, there were more pressing matters to attend to. I quickly tied up Jezebel with one of the heavy ropes that held back the curtain. It'd probably hold, since her speed was greater than her strength, and those thick ropes were usually quite strong. I was just about to push my thumbnail into my wrist to feed her the blood she needed to Awaken when there came a pounding on the door. "Miss Locke? Empire Hotel Security! Are you alright in there?"

Damnit. The floors of this place were thinner than I thought. Why did those humans always show up when they were at their most pesky?

"Miss Locke! Open the door or we'll break it down!" Another voice. There were two of them, and the other one was probably radioing for reinforcements. No time to waste. Not only did I have to get out unseen, but imagine they broke down the door and found the ravishing Miss Locke in this condition. The consequences of an autopsy would be beyond imagining. I tore off one of the curtains and threw it over her body. At that moment the first impact struck the door. They were using one of those small portable battering rams, but the door shook in its jamb from the blow. Feverishly, I scanned the room and my eyes fell on an Empire Hotel matchbook ("Stop by again at the Empire Hotel!"). The battering ram banged into the door again, making a big dent. I quickly lit one of the matches and gently deposited it on the curtain. The fabric caught fire greedily. Bummer, Jezebel.

I leapt out of the window (it was open, thankfully) right before the door burst open, grabbing hold of the fire escape with one hand and letting myself dangle from the railing. If anyone was brave enough to cross the now-burning room, I'd still be mostly invisible.

"Fire!"

An alarm went off shrilly and I let go, landing soundlessly on the walkway below. I ducked into the shadows just in time to see the two cops looking up. They'd probably positioned themselves under the fire escape in case someone fled out the window after the noise in the late Ms. Locke's room. I waited until they were done marvelling at the fire and they resumed their conversation, and headed up to the roof, since going down would be impossible to do without being noticed.

I had escaped the room and reached the roof, but I was far from safe. In minutes there'd be more cops, several fire trucks, ambulances and worst of all, the ubiquitous American TV-news choppers.

I was hungry, but I still had enough blood to burn, and I boosted my Celerity again, making a running jump to another building. In a flash, I cleared the broad street many storeys below and landed on the roof of a nearby apartment building. From there I descended to the street, and I was in the clear. But if I ever came to that hotel again, I resolved, I'd take my vengeance on that little receptionist. I actually got revenge on him a while later, but I'll tell that story some other time.

I headed home for the night, to check my e-mail and to pull some strings. I'd have to, if this fire was investigated. Perhaps on the way I'd get lucky and score a quick meal. I didn't.


	3. Chapter 3 of 6

I awoke from my torpor when twilight was turning into night and quickly headed outside. The twilight made my skin prickle uncomfortably, but this way I could still buy a newspaper before the stores closed. As I fished in my pockets for change, my hand pulled out the flyer with the skull-in-starburst sigul. I stuffed it back into my pocket, bought a newspaper and took a cab to Venture Tower. In the cab, I scanned the newspaper for the story about the fire, and indeed, there it was. "The only guest, Jezebel Locke, lost her life in the fire, that was most likely caused by smoking in bed." I couldn't repress a chuckle. Smoking in bed. My master the Justicar had more police officers in his pocket than he could count, and the Prince of Los Angeles gagged the mouths of snooping news reporters if it was necessary. Both trusted me unconditionally and used their influence without hesitation and without question if I told them it was needed. Well not entirely without question, since Prince LaCroix had requested an update on my progress concerning the plague. I would gladly pay him a visit. He was my Prince and I not a lawless Anarch. Plus, I would have an opportunity to inquire about the strange sigul.

"Downtown L.A., sweetheart," the cabby sang out, chewing gum with loud enthousiasm. "Anyplace specific you need me to drop you off?"

"LaCroix foundation please," I said, looking out the window. This view was something else than Santa Monica's vistas, with their decaying, dirty buildings, their ugly, wretched prostitutes and their seedy shops.

"The LaCroix babypowder company, or the other one?"

I sighed. "The other one." Why would I go to a babypowder manufacturer at eight in the evening?

The cabbie tipped his cap. "You got it, honey." He accelerated and drove a bit too wildly to be healthy. Probably trying to impress, as if he didn't realize that no matter how crazily he drove, I'd never fall for a balding fat guy with a stupid checkered golf cap. But let him have his illusions.

The cab screeched to a halt in front of Venture Tower, the seat of the LaCroix foundation, which existed not only as a source of immense income, but also as a base of operations for the L.A. Camarilla. The tower itself was massive, dwarfing most of the skyscrapers next to it.

"That'll be fifty-two bucks, sugar."

I payed the cab driver and got out, walking toward the double doors with their Gothic statues on either side. They were tacky and a bit over the top, but then again, so was everything these days.

"Ah, Miss Del Rey. I trust you found today's newspaper to your satisfaction?" The Prince always stayed at the Penthouse level, in a large office which was surprisingly scarce of furniture. There was only a table and a chair, other than that the room was always empty, save for the baroque paintings on the walls. The tiles were, as always, polished to an immaculate shine. I strode to the Prince's desk and bowed. "I did, Prince. And my gratitude for your intervention."

LaCroix made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if to say, 'it was child's play.' It probably was, for him. "So. Tell me of your progress concerning this... plague. This... Jezebel Locke, who was she? She did not even announce her presence in my domain. Kindred and their manners these days."

I told him the whole story, and he listened with what I believe was feigned disinterest. "So, the board is turned back to you. What move will you make?"

I hesitated – I couldn't really decide what to do until I found out what that sigul was, and even then, if it was a flyer of a laundry business or something, that'd be the end of this investigation. "I... was hoping I could request your assistance on this, Prince."

LaCroix sighed irritably. He did that a lot. Understandable, if you had the whole city yelling in your ear at the same time. "And what would you ask of me?"

"If you could tell me what this sigul means, or direct me to someone who could, I'd be grateful."

He sighed again and took the crumpled piece of paper. His brow creased, but he said, "I do not believe I've seen this before. You found it in the late Ms. Locke's hotel room, correct?"

"Yes, Prince."

"It has the look of an Anarch or Sabbat emblem. Perhaps they can assist you, though I doubt the Sabbat would be too willing to answer any questions you might have," he added with a cynical chuckle. "And the Anarchs won't be too keen on aiding a Camarilla member either."

"I've taken the liberty of operating under the assumption that all groups of Kindred stand to gain by the elimination of this plague, Prince."

LaCroix nodded. "Perhaps they do. But whether or not the Anarchs will see it that way is another matter. Still, apart from your small sloppiness in the Empire Hotel you seem to be on top of things, so I trust you will have little difficulty weathering this storm, correct?"

"I shall do what is required of me to the best of my abilities, Prince."

"Good. It's good to see some people can still give guarantees. It's disturbing, the lack of talent in this organization as of late."

I didn't really know what to say to that, so I stuck to a neutral, "Yes, Prince."

"So, if there's nothing else," the Prince said, rising from his chair.

I rose as well. I'd worked under the Prince long enough to know what that phrase meant. "There isn't, Prince. Thank you for your time and aid."

"Good," LaCroix nodded. "Oh, and there is one more thing."

He paused, probably because he wanted me to ask.

"...yes, Prince?"

"Since you'll be spending a lot of time with us, here in downtown L.A., and because the ugly wretch that is Santa Monica is no place for a servant of the Justicar, I've secured you a haven nearby, in the Skyeline complex. Don't worry," he chuckled cynically, "not one of the diseased apartments. It's apartment number four. I hope it's to your liking."

There was no answer possible other than, "Yes, Prince, it is. I'm honoured to receive your gift."

He nodded curtly. "Good. That'll be all then."

I was none the wiser when I emerged from Venture Tower, but the trip had not been for naught: I'd gotten a luxurious apartment completely for free and without any effort. Well, the only effort I'd have to make was disabling one camera. I'd go take a look later, but first, there were some Anarchs I needed to have a chat with. I hailed a taxi.

"Last Round," I said when I got in. The driver nodded and drove.


	4. Chapter 4 of 6

The Last Round still was the same dive it always had been. The smell of spilt beer and urine hung rankly in the smoky air. Metal-wannabe music blared through the speakers which had been turned up higher than they were meant to, making them emit a flapping, droning sound with every low tone. There were some patrons at the bar, and the fat and perennially silent bartender regarded me the same way he always did: with concealed lust and open hostility because he realized he'd never get a decent girl.

I made my way to the back of the bar and straight to the person I needed to see.

"Ugh. Cammy." The woman I needed to speak to rolled her eyes as a way of greeting.

"Hi Damsel." She was the one who had asked me to look into the plague, but I knew I'd never get any recognition from her until I solved the entire business. And even then. She tilted her head with the silly red beret on it and asked, "So, whatcha want? You'd think you'd be too busy kissing LaCroix' ass to pay us a visit." She pronounced it _Lacroy_.

"Kissing his ass? I'm just being loyal, Damsel."

"Whatever Cammy. Anyone who puts her worthless life on the line for some cape in an ivory tower deserves everything they get."

I leaned in closer. "I don't like your attitude Damsel, but then again, it's just an attitude. Not as if you really have what it takes to make an impression."

Damsel snorted. "Ha. Whatever you say, Cammy. So, what brings your manicured little ass to our humble bar?" As if asses could be manicured.

"I need your ideas on something."

Already a smirk was forming on her pretty but arrogant face. "Really? Whatcha need?"

I gave her the flyer with the sigul on it. "You seen this somewhere before?"

Damsel shook her head at first, but appeared to be doubting.

"Anything can help, Damsel."

"Well, it's probably nothing, but I think I've seen something like that on one of the buildings around here. You know where all those winoes and bums gather under the bridge right? Well somewhere around there."

"One of the buildings, huh?" I asked. Damsel cocked her head and gave me a look that said, 'you deaf?'.

"I guess you need me to check it out, right?" The head remained cocked and the look now said, 'you retarded?'.

I sighed theatrically and said, "Fine. I'll look into it, see what I can find."

Damsel bared her teeth in a grin either of recognition or of affirmed dominance. "That's awesome, Cammy. Y'know, maybe you aren't so bad, as far as Cammies go." She mock-punched my shoulder. "You're pretty cool, girl."

Of course I couldn't resist. "Thanks Damsel. I guess it goes to show that there's things you Anarchs just can't solve without the help of the Camarilla, doesn't it?" I smirked. Damsel's reaction was as predictable as it was amusing. "What the fuck?" she yelled. "R'member what I said about you being cool? Well, I take it all back and then some. Fuck off, Cammy trash!"

I laughed and went out, happy to be away from this rancid hole. The cold night wind blew in my face and played with my hair. I stopped for a moment to relish the cool carress and then walked off. The wino-convention under the bridge was only a few blocks away. This was a filthy, dangerous neighbourhood, but I wasn't afraid. Any mugger or rapist thinking of me as an easy target would be in for quite a shock.

"Got sh'm shpare chaynge, byoowteeful?" a weathered face covered with bushy hair and flea-ridden scarf slurred at me. I hated winoes, tramps and other bottom-feeding scum when I was alive, and I guess I'd never lost that feeling. They say they've fallen on hard times, but they're just too lazy to work. "Get away from me, you stinking bum!"

The old wino quickly retreated around a dark corner, and next to that corner, painted on the wall of a large dilapidated apartment building was the sigul of the white skull in the red starburst.

The house was dark, dusty and rank with the smells of mildew, stale air, and rot. It looked like the room I was in used to be some kind of reception, since there was a desk and a glass for the one-time receptionist to speak through. There was no one here now, though. A single TL-lamp buzzed on the ceiling, occasionally flickering and then going dark again. There was only one door here, and when I opened it, I emerged into a dark hallway. I felt around for the licht switch, but as I'd guessed (and as is always the case), the lights didn't go on. Behind me, the TL-lamp buzzed, flickered, and went dark again.

I was standing in a pitch-black hallway, coarse carpet under my shoes and loose boards all over the floor. Most of the shutters were down, but through some of the reinforced windows street light fell in, gashing yellow, dusty streaks of light in the darkness. I pulled out my pistol and slowly advanced through the dark hallway, pushing doors open as I passed them. The street lighting that slanted in provided me with just enough light to see that the rooms had all been offices at some time. Now they were just dilapidated rooms populated with broken and dirty furniture. All except one.

A woman was huddled into a corner of one of the offices, crouched behind a battered, dusty desk. The street lighting cast a dirty yellow streak on her head. She sounded as if she was whimpering and she was rocking back and forth, her hands clawed into her scalp as if her head could fall off at any moment. She hadn't seen me open the door.

"Miss?" I asked tentatively. The woman started and leapt backwards, banging against a rusty radiator. "Are you... one of the Bishop's men?" she asked as if she already knew the answer and was preparing to be shot any second. Her eyes were screwed shut.

"The Bishop?" Who was that? The woman opened one eye as if she wanted to be able to quickly close it if I pulled the trigger. As if that would help.

"You mean... you're not with the Bishop?"

"No. But tell me who he is."

All mistrust left her, so eager was she to believe that I wasn't who she thought I was. "The Bishop, he... he's a monster." Here eyes were pleading now, and she'd gotten up and pushed her face so close to mine that I smelled her sour breath. She smelled of sweat and neglect. "He... does things to people. Terrible things... I've heard... and my sister, she's talked me into joining this group but I'm afraid. There's things going on here... people have been disappearing, and some have been found... eaten away by rot just a week after they disappeared." She grabbed the front of my jacket. "I have to get out of here!" she screeched, tugging at my jacket, but only succeeding in yanking herself back and forth.

"Shut up!" I hissed, and slapped her hard in the face. Her eyes went wide and her hand went to her cheek. She gave me a wounded look, as if I, her Saviour, had betrayed her.

"If you want to get out of here," I said, "Just go. The exit's right over there." I had difficulty registering her facial expression in the darkness, but I didn't think I could register any relief. "What's wrong?"

She began tugging at my jacket again. "They'll find me! Find me if I leave! Everyone who's left is either gone or dead!" Of course they were all dead. They had the Plague. And so did this one. The smell and sight of her couldn't be misinterpreted. And if she left, she'd infect people, who would in turn spread the disease even further.

I put my finger to her lips and pulled her tight against me. "Shhhh," I whispered. Our bodies muffled the sounds of the pistol shots perfectly.

There was nothing else on this level, but at the end of the hallway, I reached a stairway that led up. The next level was even darker than the first, with all the windows closed by heavy electronic shutters. Good thing I always carried a flashlight. There as a busted soda machine next to the stairs which would I given off enough light, but it seemed to have been smashed in with some kind of heavy object. There were still soda cans scattered over the floor.

I attached my flashlight to the muzzle of my pistol and set out to explore this level. It was slow and stressful work, the flashlight illuminating only a small area while leaving all the other dusty corners dark. I had to search every patch of darkness in every room, and I knew that if anything resided here, it would have known of my presence already, giving it the advantage, and so searching the place was all but futile. I resented Malkavians and Toreadors, but I would have given much to have one of them on my side now. As it was, I had only my natural senses to guide me.

If my heart had still beaten, it would have jarred when the first of them attacked. I heard a loud, guttural growl and before I could react, a massive fist struck me in the face so hard my nose broke with a loud and horribly painful crunch. I staggered backward and lifted my pistol, and in the cone of my flashlight I saw a fat human, naked as the day he was born, with rotting flesh and weeping, gangrenous wounds all over his voluminous body. His face was twisted in a blank-minded, utterly insane grimace and his eyes were bloodshot and weeping yellow fluid. He brought his enormous fist up again, but he wasn't fast enough this time. Two gunshots shattered the silence, the impacts bursting the man's head apart from the nose up. The growl faded to a gurgle and his fat, rotten body collapsed on the floor with a loud thump. I gave it a quick prod with the tip of my boot, but decided against turning it over when I saw the slime runners hanging from my toe. This 'corpse' was almost falling apart.

Being a Vampire, I certainly didn't discount the existence of zombies, but I was pretty sure fat boy had still been alive when he attacked me. It would seem that there was a more aggressive version of the plague here, both to body and mind. And most likely, the potency and lethality of the plague grew with the infector's power. So if I extended this reasoning, it meant that the stunning Ms. Locke had only been a warm-up next to the creature who had infected this guy... and I was willing to bet that this creature called itself 'The Bishop.'

I took my cell phone from my pocket and considered calling the Prince or even my Master for reinforcements, but then again, both these Elders valued me for my independence, and not playing on your strengths in this world usually led you right to the urn. I'd have to clear this thing alone. But first I burned some blood to heal my nose, making it snap-crack-crunch back into place. Looks didn't really matter at this time, but walking around with a squashed nose was not exactly desirable either.

The second I'd healed my nose, another 'zombie' came lurching at me from a nearby corridor. This one was female, and at least partially clothed. I took aim carefully and shot her in the chest twice, but this only slowed her. Another shot through the forehead took her down for good, in a spray of putrid droplets. What in the Hells was going on here?

I moved on, and when I passed another room, another of the 'zombies' attacked from behind, taking me completely by surprse. They still seemed to possess some sort of intelligence, because while she hooked her arm around my throat, her other hand gripped the hand that held my pistol in an iron vice. Using my disciplines was out of the question since I would need all the blood I had in me when I took on this 'Bishop', so I simply used my raw strength and bent over, pulling her over my back, but losing my balance, and my gun, in the process. The pistol skidded across the floorboards, the searchlight's beam spinning across the room. The woman lunged at me agian, but I rolled out of the way, hooked my arm around her head and twisted as hard as I could.. Tendons ripped and weakened bones crunched as I wrenched with all my might. Suddenly I felt no more resistance and almost fell. Cradled in my arm was a severed, stinking woman's head. When I realized what I was holding, I dropped my trophy and scrambled backwards to grab my pistol. But she wasn't getting up again. How did these humans still live? That head had come off as though it were attached with tissue paper. It would seem that the plague in this violent form actually kept its victims alive by infusing them with murderous rage, so they kept going when a normal human body would have broken down long ago.

There were no more shambling zombies on this level (I call them zombies out of convenience, even though they weren't) and I took the last flight of stairs to the top level.

"Sistah!" the gravelly, imperious voice called out to me when I emerged. The top level was one large room full of noxious, light green vapour. My boots stood in a centimetre of stagnant, viscious fluid. I decided it was best not to wonder what it was. The voice had come from a silhouette standing amidst the darkness and vapours, so I could only make out a vaguely humanoid figure, and the swirling mists actually reflected the beam of my flashlight. "You the Bishop?" I called at the outline.

"That I am, sistah! Have you come to seek tha Enligh-ten-ment of the Brotherhood of tha Ninth Circle?"

"That's the third time I've been asked that, and the answer is still 'no'," I shouted. "And I'm not your sister!" I slowly advanced on the figure, keeping my pistol firmly trained on its head. A coarse laugh came from it. "Sistah... does that mean you're one of the unbelievahs?" He sounded like one of those TV-preachers only even crazier. "One of tha he-rah-ticks?"

I shouted back. "Before I tell you who I am, I'd like to hear who you are. Why do they call you Bishop?"

Another laugh. "Because that's who I am, sistah! Tha Bishop of this here flock! The con-gra-gay-shun of tha Ninth Circle!" He had stretched out his arms and was preaching to the ceiling. I could see him more clearly now, the bush of brown, unkempt hair atop the slightly round face. His mouth was smeared with a brown drab and his eyes were wild and flashing with a chaotic sheen. He wore dirty and ragged brown clothes around his corpulent body. A look that would make any TV-precher jealous. "We shall taint these nights with tha disease of tha un-ho-lay! And in tha Final Nights, sistah, we shall be tha Cho-sen Ones! Tha sweet, festerin' Angels!"

"Chosen by whom, I wonder. Your crusade ends here, Preacher." I said flatly.

He laughed his coarse laugh again. "That's right. You're one of tha heraticks. Don' worry, sistah! You shall still be en-ligh-tened! We up to ah _ears_ in heraticks here! But we know jes how to deal with them! They've all seen tha Light, sistah! And you will too!"

"I don't think so."

The Bishop's eyes narrowed and he unslung a large, pump-action shotgun from his back. "What you think is of no im-poh-tance! Let me show you jes how persuasive ah can be!"

Without warning, he fired his shotgun and I pulled my trigger a split-second later, but in a firefight, a split-second was everything. The buckshot hit me full in the torso, and I could feel the pellets smashing into me, ripping into my breasts and tearing up organs I thankfully no longer had any need for.

The force of the shot lifted me off my feet and threw me backwards, sending me splashing into whatever the fluid on the floor consisted of. The pain was excruciating, so much that I simply couldn't get up. My body felt flattened, the ribs crushed. Blood welled up in the back of my throat. I tried to cough it out but I could only manage a gurgle.

The Bishop stood over me, the barrel of his shotgun a black hole ready to release its horrible energy and blow me out of existence. In a very messy way.

"Hurts, Kindred?" the Bishop asked gleefully. The bullet from my pistol had made a harmless flesh wound in his shoulder. It had healed over already, making it even more pathetic. I felt blood leaking out of the torn holes in my flesh into the revolting muck that greedily lapped against my body. The Bishop leaned in closer. "_Hungry_, Kindred?" Yes! Feed me! I'm dying! Feed me _please_! I'll do _anything_!

I tried to struggle but could only shake my head from one side to another. The Bishop was no longer a crazy TV-preacher. I saw him for what he really was, a cold calculating devil. He even spoke without any trace of dialect.

"Come now... You _know_ you want it." He laid down his shotgun and brought his face closer to mine. "Give into me, Kindred. You know I know you can't resist." His nose was almost touching mine. So hungry. He stuck out his tongue, grinning madly. I knew he probably wasn't going to lick my face like some perverted human would, but I didn't know what he _was_ going to do, and the speed with which he did it and my slow descent into torpor made me powerless to resist. With a lustful growl, he shoved his tongue into my mouth and clamped his hands down on the top of my head and below my chin, pushing my teeth closed. I feebly thrashed, wide-eyed and capable of making only a _mmm-mmm_-sound. His grip was iron, and his putrid blood ran down my throat, his bleeding tongue stuck all the way down into my mouth. I remember my eyes, how wide they were, the stinking muck splashing, and how dirty and almost raped I felt.

The blood found its own way and promptly closed up the wounds in my chest, but the little blood of my own that remained in me, and the powerful instinctual force in my dead body infused me with such a surge of strength that my body violently expelled the rest of the stinking blood in a single loud retch. Black blood blasted out of my nose and mouth as I vomited the Bishop's diseased curse back out again, so powerfully that the Bishop was thrown back and fell down on his backside. I sat up on my knees and puked out the rest of the blood in the Bishop's lap.

Even when it was all gone, I had to support myself with my hands as I kept hacking and dry-heaving. Then, still nauseous and coughing, I fumbled for the Bishop's shotgun. The Bishop still hadn't moved. He sat on his ass, apparently stunned by the sudden breaking of his ritual. He seemed to be suffering from some sort of backlash. As soon as my hand settled on the butt of the shotgun though, he blinked and his face contorted in a snarl of rage as he launched himself toward me. He seemed to have some skill in Celerity as well, because he moved much faster than a normal Kindred would have, and he snatched the shotgun's barrel as I swung it towards his face. I could feel tha last of my strength fading, so it had to be now! With all my might, I pushed the barrel toward his face, and suddenly the Bishop's hand splashed down into the muck and came up holding my pistol.

With my last strength, I shoved the shotgun in his face and we both fired simultaneously. I saw the Bishop's head blowing apart in a horrible red-and-yellow mess at the same time the shot from my own pistol tore though my throat in a hard _pow_.

I had been sitting upright on my knees, and the last thing I remember was falling backward, the ligatures in my knees ripping, and seeing the ceiling overhead. Fumbling for my cellphone and speed-dialling blindly. Any number. Gurgling "Help," and the address. Then there was torpor.


	5. Chapter 5 of 6

In an enormous blow, my senses returned to me – and with them, the taste of blood, my hand clamped around and arm and my mouth sucking so hard it hurt. The arm being pulled away despite my feeble protests. And a man's voice. "That's enough for now. She's coming to."

There was a man with a goatee standing over me, wiping blood from his wrist. "Heya kid. Good to see you again."

I only groaned weakly.

"Remember me, kid?" When I didn't reply he laughed and said, "It's me, Nines. Nines Rodriguez, remember?"

_I remember you._ I groaned incomprehensibly. A woman's face thrust itself into my vision. "Heya, Cammy shit-splat! Not so proud now, huh?" Her voice wasn't cruel but it did find some relish in my situation. Damsel.

"Hey Damsel," I slurred. She giggled. "Hey Cammy. Good to see ya." Earnestly now. I recovered more rapidly now, Nines' blood doing its work. His was the kind of blood that made my own feel like sour, watered-down wine.

"Nines..." I croaked. "Were you the ones I called?"

He nodded. "That's right, kid. We 'Anarchs' don't leave anyone to their fate." He winked. "Not even Camarilla trash."

I tried to sit up, but lacked the strength. "Thanks, guys."

"No problem," Damsel replied, ever cheerful. "Looks like there's things you Cammies just can't do without the help of the Anarchs huh?"

I couldn't help but chuckle. "I guess you got me there." This time I did manage to sit up.

"So..." a deep bass voice came from the back of the room. "Why did you call us, and not LaCroix? I thought you two were such good buddies?"

"Hi Skelter." Skelter nodded back. "I don't mean to minimalize your efforts, but I just speed dialled blindly, any number was good."

Nines laughed. "So maybe that means Fate is trying to show you something eh kid?"

I laughed too, but shook my head. "I don't believe in fate, Nines. But thanks for everything. All of you."

"That's _three_ you owe me now, kid," Nines said with a grin.


	6. Chapter 6 of 6

The night wind was gently playing with my hair and the sound of the sea quietly rose and fell with the lapping of the waves.

"Miss Del Rey." Mercurio's voice broke my quiet sensation. I didn't look up. "Hi Mercurio."

I was sitting on the sand, hugging my knees and looking at the waves, out over the calm sea.

"Took me some time to find you. What are you doing out here?"

I ignored the question. "What are the results?"

Mercurio sighed and sat down next to me, producing an envelope. "They're in here. LaCroix told his people to analyze your blood for diseases and compare it to the Bishop's, and to give you the results in a closed envelope."

I kept staring straight ahead. "Open it, please."

"Well, I can't... I'm not supposed to..." he stammered.

"It's alright. Open it."

He doubted for a moment and tore open the envelope.

"Read it to me please."

Are you sure, I mean - "

"Mercurio. Don't worry. It's okay. Read it please." I kept staring at the ocean.

Mercurio cleared his throat uncomfortably and unfolded the paper, scanning its contents. "It's all a bunch of technical mumbo-jumbo," he muttered and then said, "Ah! Here it is." He hesitated, as if afraid to look. "Bishop: positive (unknown disease)." He turned over the page. "Del Rey… negative."

We both breathed a heave simultaneous sigh of relief. No diseases. I had already come to terms with the worst, with being infected and forced to end my own existence, for I refused to be responsible for the spreading of this vile disease.

"Man, what a relief," Mercurio sighed redundantly. I cocked an eyebrow at him.

"What?" he said defensively. "I've come to like you over the weeks."

I grinned, shook my head and got up. "Let's go."

"So, what were you doing out here?" Mercurio asked, getting up as well.

I brushed the sand off the seat of my pants and smiled sadly. "I was waiting for the sunrise."


End file.
